That Which Survives
by Eliot Rosewater
Summary: A little bit of that healing/grieving period we were cheated out of.


Every once in a while, Scott has a moment where things seem to slow down. It feels like he's holding his breath even though he knows he's not. Right now, he's having one of these moments. Right now Scott feels like Captain Miller in _Saving Private Ryan_ when he's seeing everything get blown up. Only Scott doesn't hear ringing. Scott only hears the slow and steady _gluh-glump _of a heartbeat. This particular heart sounds like it's tired. And rightfully so.

Kira is comforting Lydia now. The latter is on her knees beside Aiden's dead body. Scott feels the ache inside him. He doesn't know when Aiden became part of the pack, but he can feel the loss either way. They were not exaggerating when they said losing a pack member felt like losing a limb. This hurt, Scott knows, will not be healed in a few minutes. Instead, it will merge with the even bigger hurt that is Allison. _That _hurt will _never_ go away. And maybe he doesn't want it to. Scott wants to cry.

That heartbeat in his ears flutters. Scott can feel it before he hears it. _Tired_, he reminds himself. _He's just tired. _He adjusts the way he's supporting Stiles. His wolf wants to swing Stiles up and run away with him. The wolf wants to get away from here, away from its dead pack members. It wants to grab Stiles and run so that there won't be a third hurt inside Scott's chest. It appears that Scott's alpha gets protective, if not possessive, when it's grieving. He wants to sit down and cry for Allison and a little bit for Aiden. The wolf knows this, but it makes him take care of Stiles first.

That flutter again. Stiles shakes like a maraca against Scott's side. After he fainted, Scott worried. But then he woke up, and they had all breathed a sigh of relief. Since seeing Aiden dead, Stiles has taken a nosedive again. Scott can hear it. He can smell it. But he keeps telling himself that Stiles smells like exhaustion, not death. He's in shock, he's not dying.

And then Derek is there.

"I'll take him home," he says quietly.

When Derek tries to peel Stiles out from under his arm, Scott growls. He hadn't meant to, but his wolf seems to be making a lot of decisions for him at the moment. Right now, the wolf doesn't want anyone taking Stiles away from him. Not even Derek.

Derek knows what the growl means more than Scott does. So he amends, "_Both _of us should take him home."

Scott lets Derek drive so that he can put all of his energy into not losing it. The quiet is thick in the car. Stiles's heart flutters again. Derek catches Scott's eye in the rearview mirror, letting him know that he's not the only one that heard it. Scott looks down at his friend. His eyes are glassy, on the verge of tears, and looking at something Scott knows he'll never be able to see. The small enclosed space reeks of Stiles's anxiety. The scent of exhaustion is so thick that Scott thinks it's making him tired. (Is secondhand exhaustion a thing?) Scott puts a hand on Stiles's chest. The contact makes his friend's eyes focus again.

"Go to sleep, Stiles," Scott sighs.

For what might be the first time in the history of their friendship, Stiles does what Scott says without complaining about it. The stench of panic dissipates to a level that is easy for both werewolves to ignore.

Derek doesn't try to take Stiles from Scott when they get to the Stilinski house. He opens doors and clears a path for the alpha to carry the human to his room. Then Derek waits at the bottom on the stairs and tries not to listen to anything besides the two heartbeats. He is good at this sort of thing. Selective hearing is not something Derek could imagine bitten wolves mastering. Focusing on the heartbeats, he can make his own pulse match theirs. When he was an alpha, Derek used to do this. He could let his hearing stretch out as far as it could, much further than when he was a beta, and he'd be able to find his pack. Each heartbeat was distinct, and he'd match his heart to theirs. Alphas did it to bond with their pack. Every member has a unique link to the alpha. No one is in a pack because they are a friend of a friend of the alpha.

As a beta, Derek used to find this comforting. He could tell when his mother would search him out in their big house at night and match her heart to his. It gives betas a feeling. They know when it's happening, but it's hard to describe. A presence beside you might be the closest way to describe it. A very strong alpha can use this bond to speed up or slow down their pack mates' hearts. There are stories of this particular trait reviving betas, keeping them from falling off the cliff of existence. His mother would always make his heart skip a beat in a way that used to make him laugh. It was like a hug. Derek always thought of it as his mother saying "I'm right here" or "I'm thinking of you." She had done it when she found him after Paige. The last time she'd done it was when the house was burning. He had been standing outside, Laura restraining him, when he felt her slow his racing heart down. To this day, Derek swears his heart stopped just for a moment when hers did. Laura's did too. One last "I'm thinking of you."

Derek considers telling Scott about this alpha trait. No doubt he could use it to calm down Stiles when he has one of many panic attacks that are sure to come. He wonders if it works on humans. It was never something that occurred to him when his family was still alive. Not everyone was a werewolf in the Hale Pack of old. Derek chalks it up to another question he'll never get to ask his mother. It's worth mentioning to Scott, he decides. He _is_ a True Alpha, and if anyone has a bond with Stiles, it's Scott.

Not for the first time, Derek wishes he was still an alpha. If he was, he would reach out to Scott and match his heart to his. If he was still an alpha, he would offer the same comfort his mother gave to him after he'd killed Paige. Because Scott needs that right now. He needs it more than Derek had all those years ago. But there is no more Alpha Hale in Beacon Hills. And a beta cannot influence an alpha's heartbeat. That particular trait only works one way.

The wolf in him wants to go up there and curl around Stiles to stop the vibrations his shivering is sending out. The inside of Derek's nose burns with the smell of _cold_ filling the entire house. The scent of cold is more overpowering than the heavy stench of exhaustion. There is also Scott's grief fighting with the two former smells for dominance in the house. Derek makes himself wait. Scott needs to get away from here and let out everything in him. He needs to let the misery claim him. Just get it over with. The longer you put it off, the worse it gets. That train of thought leads him right back to the fire, and, more recently, to Boyd. Scott needs to grieve. But not before he knows his best friend – his beta, one could argue – is not going to keel over and die.

So Derek gives him forty-five minutes. Then he goes up the stairs and tentatively enters. He moves slowly, giving Scott plenty of time to realize that it's only him and not some evil clone of Stiles come back from the dead. Or god knows what else. No growl is thrown his way. This is good. Scott simply stands beside Stiles's bed, eyes trained down on him but not really looking at him. No doubt, he hasn't moved since putting his friend down. Derek knows his mind is elsewhere. He crosses the room and puts a hand on Scott's shoulder.

"He'll be fine," Derek begins.

Scott grunts in response. It is in acknowledgement, but it is already telling him that the alpha will not leave here without a fight.

Growing up in a mostly-werewolf family, Derek knows how to fight. And because of Dear Uncle Peter, he is well versed in fighting with words, manipulating people. Admittedly, Derek sucks at words. That does not change the fact that he still knows how it _should _be done. Right now Scott needs to be manipulated for his own good.

"The rest of the pack needs you," he says softly. Scott blinks and looks up at him as though the thought had never occurred to him. "You've lost a lot. They need their alpha. They need someone to take charge. They need _you_, Scott."

The alpha clenches his jaw and looks back at the body on the bed. "Stiles needs me. _Stiles_ needs me."

Derek nods carefully. "You're right. Stiles needs you, but not right now. Your pack does. Stiles isn't going anywhere. I'll make sure of it. Something awful has happened and they're going to look to you for comfort and guidance. You have to lead them out of this. Right now, Scott, the pack needs you. In a few days, Stiles is _really_ going to need you. If you want to be any help to him, you need to sort yourself and the pack out _right now_."

Derek feels like he hasn't said so many words at once in a very long time. He's almost tired of talking.

Scott glances up again. A whole conversation that could never be captured with words passes between them. After a few seconds, they both seem to sigh in relief at the same time.

"I'll call you when he wakes up," Derek assures him aloud because he knows the alpha needs to actually hear the promise.

"He – he sometimes has nightmares . . ." Scott tells him after he unsticks his throat. "An-and you know how-how he's been sleepwalking lately. R-right?"

There are about a thousand snarky things he could say in response. _Of course_ he knows Stiles has been sleepwalking. Who could forget that fucking fiasco? But, because Derek is word-tired, he just nods.

"His dad kee—keeps a weighted blanket on the top shelf in the closet. It . . . it calmed him down when—when he slept, to . . . to stop the nightmares. You know? When he was a kid." Scott takes a big breath to calm himself. "And we should leave a light on . . . so he knows where he is when he wakes up." He gestures to the darkness outside. "Could you call his dad? Let him know what happened and that every- . . . everything is okay. It's over."

The way his voices cracks on the last word is probably felt by the entire pack. It's heavy with grief and mourning. Derek feels it crash into him, making him experience every ounce of a sadness that doesn't belong to him. No doubt the others are sensing it, too. Hell, _Peter_'s spine is probably tingling. Even Stiles stirs in his bed, responding to the distress of an alpha that he, by all rights, should not be able to feel.

It takes a few more assurances for Scott to finally leave and make his way back to his shambling pack. Derek tries the sheriff, but it goes to voicemail. That place is probably a zoo. He leaves a message even though he knows the sheriff will probably head home before he checks his messages. Derek doesn't hesitate to go hunting for this magic blanket or whatever it is that Scott mentioned. He finds it easily. What else would a lump of fabric with pockets full of beads be for?

Under any other circumstances, Derek would just throw the weighted blanket over Stiles and be done with it. But Scott has entrusted him with caring for his best friend. So he places the ridiculous thing on him as gently as he can. Then Derek sits back at in the desk chair and stares at the ceiling, matching his heart to Stiles's slow rhythm. It reeks of cold and exhaustion in there.

"Did you know," Derek asks the silence, "that in some real wolf packs betas are the babysitters of the pack? For us, anyone who is not an alpha or an omega is a beta. Real wolves have only one beta in their pack. They're the one the alpha looks to when making decisions, the second-in-command, the caregiver."

Stiles doesn't respond, of course. The scent of cold has lessened to a bearable level. But the vibrations caused by his shivering still itch at Derek's ears. Despite the circumstances, he can't help but feel incredibly irritated. He decides that Stiles is just as annoying now as he was the day he met him.

* * *

><p>Stiles doesn't wake up until much later. Like <em>days<em> later. Like, _after-Allison-has-been-buried_ later. Scott worried. He made his mother look him over, make sure he hadn't died in his sleep (make sure Scott wasn't just imaging his friend's heartbeat). He had Kira's mother come and look at him. She said there was nothing wrong. Apparently, being possessed by an evil fox spirit for a few weeks and then being vomited up from your own body really takes it out of you. Go figure.

Still, Scott worried. Being in Stiles's room calmed him down. While his friend slept, Scott grieved and let his mind wander. The wolf in him wasn't done being sad, but it found comfort in taking care of Stiles. Scott is sitting on the edge of his bed, stealing whatever pain he can from his friend, when he hears the heartbeat change. It's faster. Not in a panicky way, but more in a not-sleeping-anymore kind of way. Scott stills. And he waits.

It's about two minutes before Stiles opens his eyes. A voice in his head tells him that he should go get the sheriff. His father ought to be here while his son wakes up from his post-possession coma, but the wolf growls at that voice. It wants this time with Stiles to itself. It's another thirty-seven seconds before his eyes focus and Stiles actually _sees_ Scott. The sound of his friend's heart pounding seems to echo in the room. Scott doesn't even realize that his own pulse has sped up to match the human's.

"What is it?" he asks attentively. "What's wrong? Stiles, are you okay?"

Stiles's voice is raw from lack of use. "Dude, I _really_ have to go to the bathroom."

Scott doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. So he does both.

* * *

><p>The sheriff is there now. Scott wishes he had more time to be alone with Stiles. He tries not to let his emotions show. Stiles is jittery. And very confused. He doesn't seem to believe them when Scott and the sheriff tell him how long he's been asleep. The sound of his heart pounding is so loud Scott is sure that the sheriff can hear it too. Scott wants to ask Stiles what he remembers. The elephants in the room are named Allison and Aiden. From the way Stiles's eyes are looking anywhere but at the two people before him, Scott knows that he can see the elephants, too. In sum, it feels and smells like Stiles is on the verge of a massive panic attack.<p>

There is an unsuccessful joint venture to get him to eat. Stiles tells them over and over that he doesn't want to. When they finally get him to swallow something, he vomits twenty minutes later. The sheriff is frantic. Scott frowns. They both want to call Scott's mom. Stiles knows what they are thinking and tells them he is fine. Scott doesn't think it's possible for Stiles's heart to beat any faster than it already is, so he can't tell if it's a lie. Only a few more words are exchanged before Scott can't stand it anymore.

"Stiles, you need to calm down," he says with something in his voice that feels different. It takes a long time for him to realize that it's because it's a command from the alpha. Stiles may be pack – the first person Scott thinks of when he thinks the word _pack_ – but he is still human and not subject to the commands of an alpha. At least, not in the ways that the wolves are. Scott puts a hand on Stiles's chest and forces him to lie down (and damn if the cold doesn't seep right out of his friend's chest and into his). "You're going to pass out if you don't _calm the fuck down_."

The sheriff doesn't comment on Scott's choice of words.

Stiles's eyes go wide as his back is forced into the bed, his head into the pillows. Scott and the sheriff cocoon him blankets. It does nothing to calm him. Stiles begins to stammer, "I'm sorry. I can't make it stop. I mean, who has control over their pulse? You guys must have been worried if I was, like, _dead_ for a few days. I'm really sorry. I should have tried to wake up. Or . . . or _something_. I don't know. I didn't mean to do that. I didn't mean to do _any_ of it." Just for a moment, his throat swells, closing off all that delicious air from his lungs. But it passes. "And I know I should calm the fuck down right now, but I can't. I'm just really confused and freaking out."

Scott doesn't know what to do. His wolf just wants to yell a command for him to_ stop_ freaking out. But his human side knows this is ridiculous, because even if Stiles wanted to, he couldn't stop. Luckily, the sheriff has extensive experience dealing with Freaking-Out-Stiles. He sits beside his son, and Scott pushes Stiles down again when he moves to get up. Just laying him down made his heart go from Quantum-Tunneling-Flash to a more comfortable Large Hadron Collider. Scott can hear his lungs struggling to keep up with the demands of his heart, and he won't have Stiles sitting up so he can pass out for another week.

"There's nothing to apologize for," the sheriff tells his son. There is a retort bubbling up from Stiles, but he speaks again before he can give it voice. "I know there's a lot going on inside your head right now, but it can all wait. What you need to know right now is that you're perfectly safe, none of us are angry with you, and we all love you. All of it's over now. I know you're scared. We'll deal with it one step at a time, okay? Just like we always do."

During this little speech, Scott listens to Stiles's heart come down to a human rate. It is so relieving that he thinks he sighed out loud. Stiles is muttering something, and they both lean toward him to hear it.

"This isn't real. It's not real. This isn't real," he says in one breath, repeating.

"Stiles, this _is_ real. You're right here next to me. All of this is real," Scott says.

Tears well up in his eyes, but they don't fall. Louder, he says, "This isn't real. This can't be real. This isn't happening. I have to wake up. It's not real. Wake up, Stiles! Wake up! It's not real!"

Scott is sure that the sheriff can hear Stiles's heart skyrocket back to experimental physics levels before falling just as fast back to that of a heavily sleeping person. The sheriff calls his name and shakes him a little, but his son remains unconscious. The irony of Stiles's mantra leaves a bitter taste in Scott's mouth.

* * *

><p>The sheriff tells Scott to go home.<p>

Scott says no.

Kira sits beside him and wants to know if he's okay.

Scott says no.

Derek turns up and tells him that he'll watch Stiles for a while.

Scott says no.

Lydia visits and asks if he's coming to school.

Scott says no.

Isaac slinks in and tells him he has to sleep sometime.

Scott says no.

His mother comes in and doesn't say anything.

Scott goes home with her.

* * *

><p>The nightmares start. Stiles's screams fill the house like a bursting volcano. His father is there in an instant, comforting him like he used to after his mother died. It takes a while for Stiles to register the sheriff's presence. When he does, the screams subside to gut-wrenching sobs. The sheriff doesn't know what to do. He bites his lip and tightens his arms around his son's body until it feels like he's got him in a vise. Stiles grips his arm and continues to cry and shake.<p>

Not three minutes of this passes before Scott is bursting into the room, gasping for breath after an all-out sprint to get to the Stilinski house. He had been lying in his own bed stretching out his hearing until all that filled his ears were the sounds of Stiles breathing. Once Scott got into his friend's room, he realizes that he has no idea what he is going to do. He had heard that scream of intense distress, and he had just run as fast as he could. Looking at Stiles now, Scott knows that he has no idea that he's there. The sheriff has this one under control. He is alternating between shushing his son and kissing the top of his head. It seems to be working.

"I killed them," Stiles says loudly, miserably. Guiltily. "I killed them. It's my fault they're dead. I killed them, and I liked it."

Scott is frozen, torn. His mind is absolutely blank. All he can do is watch the sheriff grip Stiles tighter and shush him more forcefully. What was working before is now making him cry harder.

Sometime during the night, the crying subsides. All that fills the room are tiny gasps for air. Stiles hasn't said anything since his first declaration. The sheriff runs his fingers through his son's hair like always. Occasionally, Scott will catch his eye and they will have a silent conversation. Stiles doesn't seem to realize they're there, but he isn't going back to sleep either. All he does is tremble and gasp in the sheriff's arms, eyes roving over something that neither of them can see.

When the sun is peeking at them through the window, Scott tells the sheriff that he should go to work. There is no school today, so there is no good excuse for him not to leave Stiles in Scott's care. Repeated assurances that he will call him if anything changes (for better or worse), the sheriff leaves, albeit reluctantly. Scott turns his attention back to Stiles, back to where it has been lingering for a long time now. After his father got up, Stiles had curled into himself; knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around himself as if it is the only thing holding him together. Yet his eyes remain open and distant.

The sun is fully in the sky before Stiles relaxes his position. Scott's mind had been wallowing in thoughts of Allison before the movement distracted him. Deciding not to crowd him, Scott just watches. Stiles untangles his legs and sits up. For the first time in a very long time, he looks like himself. How many times had Scott fallen asleep on the very floor he is standing on? How many times had he woken up on that floor seeing the very image before him? Well, not exactly the same image. This one is more haunted.

Since Scott likes routine and history has proven to repeat itself where most things are concerned, he waits for Stiles to speak first.

"Do you want breakfast?" Stiles eventually asks him. It is a throw-away question. The way his voice sounds so unsure and tentative makes Scott's skin itch.

Scott is a teenage boy that also happens to be a werewolf. He can eat. Not until Stiles asked the question did he realize just how much he could eat right now. The grief had pushed him to drastic measures. Scott couldn't recall the last time he had a decent meal. Probably in almost as much time as Stiles.

"Yes," Scott says with confidence.

Without really thinking about it, he hovers over Stiles as he peels himself out of his bed. Scott wants to reach out and help him – hell, he wouldn't mind carrying him – but Stiles waves him away. He walks like a baby deer on ice; all wobbly legs and skittering steps. But he keeps his feet beneath him. Scott walks a little bit too close just in case. In the doorway, Stiles turns back and looks at his bed with longing. If they weren't friends for as long as they are, Scott might not have been able to see what Stiles was really looking for. With lupine grace, he walks back to the bed and liberates the weighted blanket from the tangle of bedding.

All kids have something given to them that remind them of their parents or offers some other kind of comfort. Some kids have teddy bears. Some kids have old jewelry or family heirlooms. Yet some others have sweaters belonging to lost family. Stiles has a twelve-pound blanket. Despite all the talk about the blankets being therapeutic and calming to hyperactive and anxious people, Scott knows that Stiles finds it comforting because it reminds him of his mother. She had given it to him for Christmas when he was six. (In actuality, his aunt made it. It was only delivered by Stiles' mother.) Not that all the other benefits don't make his friend sleep better at night.

After laboring down the stairs, the two of them stand in the kitchen. Scott gives Stiles enough distance so that he doesn't feel crowded. His patience begins to strain as they stand there and Stiles looks around like he hasn't been in his own kitchen before.

"What do you want?" Stiles asks, but it sounds more like _What should I do now_?

It occurs to Scott that history and tradition have just slapped him in the face. In the past, Stiles always made meals. Scott couldn't even compete with his culinary prowess. He kicks himself. He certainly won't have Stiles cooking for him when he's in this sort of state. That just seems cruel.

"Why don't you sit down? I can make something," he says. Distance be damned, Scott pushes him into a chair and lays the blanket across his lap. He almost curses when Stiles lets him push him around without resistance.

"You never make anything," Stiles tells the countertop. That's what he must have been talking to, because he certainly wasn't looking at Scott when he said it. (It would have been true on either account, for those of you keeping score.)

"Yeah, well, I'm throwing caution to the wind."

"Haven't you done enough of that recently?"

Scott freezes and turns to look back at him. Stiles is tracing little outlines on the countertop. Shoulders up by his ears, he looks like he's hiding. All at once, he lets loose a massive sigh, sits up straight, and looks Scott right in the eye for the first time in days.

"Sorry. That was . . . That wasn't the right thing to say."

Scott says slowly, "Don't worry about it. I know what you mean."

Stiles' eyes fall back down to the countertop. A heavy sigh slips out again. As Scott moves around the kitchen preparing pancakes (referencing the box frequently), he lets his eyes stray toward Stiles. Almost like a sentient being, Scott feels like the wet nose of his wolf is pressing against his sternum from the inside. It's insistent; wants to come out and personally check on its struggling pack mate. The most bizarre impulse to go over and _groom _Stiles courses through him. Since becoming an alpha, Scott thinks he is becoming more primal. That, or it's harder to hold back an alpha than it is a beta. Perhaps he should ask Derek.

Flipping over one of the pancakes, Scott looks over his shoulder again. Stiles is rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He pulls his hands away from his face, staring at them. Scott doesn't need to be Lydia Martin (re: a genius) to know that he is counting his fingers. Stiles rubs his hands roughly over his eyes again once he seems satisfied with their count. His fingers tangle in his hair, and he pulls at it. A frustrated groan rents the silence between them.

Scott abandons the stove and disengages Stiles's hands from his hair. With his face now in clear view, Scott can see the glassiness of his eyes.

"My hair is too long," Stiles tells him in a small voice.

It is so ridiculous that Scott actually chuckles. "Now _that_ is something we know how to fix."

Stiles tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. "Oh my god, I'm really losing it. Get through all that shit and _now_ I'm losing it." Head falling back to a normal orientation, he eyes Scott tiredly. "Fucking losing it over my _hair_. Jesus Christ . . ."

Scott shrugs and goes back to the pancake, tipping it out of the pan and starting another. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Give yourself a break for once."

"Give myself a break?" He laughs harshly at it. "I killed the girl of your dreams, and you're telling me to give myself a break."

Possibly every muscle in his body tenses at that. But it's only for a second, and he's back to normal. "That wasn't you," he says firmly.

"Looked like me, didn't it?"

"That doesn't mean anything. It wasn't you, Stiles. No one blames you for it, so don't blame yourself. Besides, if you want to talk specifics, it was the Oni that killed her."

"On my command."

"_It. Wasn't. You._"

"Walks like a duck, sounds like a duck . . ."

That is all the patience Scott has for the Nice Guy Method. He swings away from the stove to face him, alpha-red eyes glowing in frustration. "Fine! Do you want to be the bad guy? You killed Allison. There. I said it. Do you feel better? Does having me yell at you make you feel better? Because I'll tell you what, Stiles, it doesn't make _me_ feel any better! You know why? Because it's not true! If you want to carry on believing it, I can treat you like it is, even though it's not. You killed Allison. You killed my first love. Know how you can make it up to me? By shutting the fuck up about it and letting me take care of you."

Stiles looks genuinely shocked. Scott couldn't have drawn that sort of reaction from him if he dressed in drag and did the hula. The look makes him feel awful though. As soon as he's done shouting, he wishes he hadn't started. The last thing he should have done is confirm all the awful thoughts in Stiles's head. Scott feels dirty, ashamed. He feels like Derek, however unfair and insulting that is to the former alpha. Finally, after several shallow breaths, Stiles tears his eyes away from Scott's and counts his fingers furiously, repeatedly.

Scott sighs with a little bit of frustration. He grabs Stiles's wrists so he stops his counting. When Stiles looks up at him, Scott says, "Look, I don't want to yell at you. I couldn't imagine what it's like being in your head before all this shit started, and I certainly don't want to know what it's like _now_. Yes, Allison is dead. Yes, I loved her. But it _wasn't your fault_." Stiles closes his eyes, but Scott just waits until he opens them again before continuing. "I know you don't believe me. We'll fix that later. But, Stiles, you are my best friend. Always have been and always will be. So, yeah, I'm upset that she's dead. It hurts so much I don't know what to do most days. But I'm confident it won't always be like this. I'll get over her. I'll get to the point where thinking of her will make me happy for what we had instead sad about all the things we didn't have time for."

Stiles jerks his wrists in Scott's grip, trying to free them. The urge to count his fingers was all but writ across his face. But werewolf strength trumps all.

"Let me go," Stiles says miserably, like he's about to cry.

He sounds so miserable, in fact, that Scott almost does as he says. Instead, he shakes his head. "No. I'm not done talking to you."

"Please let me go." It's more desperate this time.

"No."

Stiles squirms in a lame bid for freedom. Scott just keeps his gaze steady on his friend's face. His wrists twist in Scott's grasp, but he his hold is tight. Not enough to bruise, but enough to hold Stiles in place. Scott listens to his friend's breath hitch and heart rate pick up. A part of him feels bad for upsetting him like this when they finally got him out of bed. Stiles's exhale comes out shuddering.

"Let me go," he wheezes. "I can't breathe."

"Yes, you can."

Stiles shakes his head back and forth. In a breathless voice, he pants, "Let go. Let go. Letgoletgoletgoletgoletgoletgo."

"You are just asking for a _Titanic_ reference, my friend," Scott replies calmly.

Another ferocious yank tries to free Stiles's wrists from his grasp. He just tightens his fingers and doesn't give an inch.

Between short gasps for air, Stiles manages to say, "Just let me go. I – I feel . . . I feel trapped."

Immediately, Scott recalls the images in his head when Stiles had called him in his sleep, when Stiles thought he was in a basement with a steel jaw-trap on his leg. Trapped. Every nerve ending in Scott wants to release him. It is probably – definitely – not a good idea for him to be making Stiles feel that way. The only thing holding him back is that little wolf instinct telling him not to break contact. The wolf wants _more_ contact, in fact. Scott holds it back, figuring touching Stiles while he's like this will probably just freak him out even more. If holding his arms makes Stiles feel trapped, how would hugging him make him feel? Smothered, probably.

"You're not trapped," Scott tells him. "Just calm down. Breathe. You're right here in your house with me. How many times have we been here?"

"Just let go of me," he whines without enough air to put any conviction behind it.

"How many times, Stiles?"

"A lot," he spits out before his throat closes up on him again.

Werewolf hearing tells Scott that Stiles might as well be breathing through a straw. _Not enough air, _the human part of his brain is shouting at him, _let go! Let him breathe!_ His wolf-brain growls at his human-brain, telling him to wrap up Stiles in the most ferocious bear hug he can muster. They are evenly matched, his brains, so Scott just maintains his hold on Stiles.

"Yeah, a lot. We've been here a lot. Both of us. Together. Right?"

Stiles is no longer looking at him. He's staring down at his chest, willing it to unlock and let the air in. But he does nod his head in response to Scott's question. So he pushes on.

"Remember when I snuck over here after my parents told me about their divorce? Do you remember that?"

He nods again, glancing up for the briefest of seconds.

"What did you do when I turned up a huge, crying mess? What did you do, Stiles?"

Punctuated by gasps, he supplies the answer: "Made you breakfast."

Scott nods, a smile on his face as he remembers the incident. The big, horrible night when his world was warped forever . . . What he remembers most clearly is Stiles making him breakfast at midnight. According to eleven year old Stiles, _eating breakfast when it's not breakfast time always makes people happy_.

"Yeah. You made me breakfast. Remember in elementary school when I had an asthma attack playing British Bulldog? Remember how bad it was? The teachers were going to call an ambulance, but they didn't. Why didn't they have to?"

When Stiles looks up this time he meets Scott's gaze. "I – . . . inhaler."

"You had one of my inhalers. You carried one around all the time just in case I forgot. And when I fell out of the canoe when we went camping up north. Remember that? What did you say when you pulled me out of the water?"

"Quoted . . . I quoted _L-Lord of . . . of the Rings_." He had enough breath to laugh a little.

Scott laughs, too. "What was the line, Stiles?"

After swallowing a breath, he recites, "_It is no good trying to escape you. But I'm glad_." Then he has to stop and fight his constricting chest.

Scott knows Stiles can't finish it, so he does it for him. "_I cannot tell you how glad. Come along! It is plain that we were meant to go together. We will go, and may the others find a safe road._ We were just screwing around, and you were making a joke. I hadn't read the book or seen the movies. You had to explain the reference to me. I think about that quote all the goddamn time. Even though it was cheesy and totally dorky, it's probably the coolest thing you've ever said to me."

He pauses to let that sink in. Also, so he can listen to Stiles's breathing better. It seems easier. Scott smiles a satisfied smile. Straddling the line between what his wolf thinks is right and what his human side thinks is right might just lead both of them out of this mess. Stiles relaxes into his chair, forcing himself to breathe deeply and slowly. His body seems to resist the expansion of his lungs, though not enough to stop the motion.

"Allison was my first girlfriend, and I loved her," he says while he still holds Stiles's gaze. "Someday I'm going to come to terms with what happened, and I'll be okay. But when you get down to it . . . I don't think I'd _ever_ get over losing my best friend. So for the love of god, let me help you."

Stiles flares his nostrils as he inhales deeply. Dropping his gaze away from Scott, he nods once on the exhale.

"Good," Scott declares.

Finally – _finally_ – he releases his hold on Stiles's wrists. They shoot back to their owner, fingers interlacing in his lap. There is a brief headcount.

With a relatively even voice, Stiles says, "You burned the pancake."

"That's okay," Scott jovially replies as he dumps the black disc into the trashcan. "We'll just start over."

* * *

><p>As they eat, since Scott brought it up, they settle into the couch and watch <em>The Lord of the Rings<em> (extended edition, duh). Scott tries not to let Stiles notice how closely he's watching him. He has a particularly difficult time holding in his comments when Stiles gives up on the pancakes after eating no more than 40% of _one_. Remembering how he'd gotten sick last time he ate, Scott decides not to push it. More accurately, he decides to push it later. The movie splits his attention. The dark bruises under Stiles's eyes are much more interesting than whatever is happening in this nerd movie, but it captures his attention wholly sometimes. Scott wonders why his friend still looks so tired when he isn't thinking that Frodo sounds funny when he yells. Stiles had been asleep for entire _days_. Like, sometimes over the past few days, Stiles wouldn't even twitch. Surely he can't still be tired.

After _The Fellowship of the Ring_ ends, Stiles says he's going to take a shower. Scott frowns but doesn't object. Instead he does the creepy thing: listens to every movement coming from the bathroom. For a long time it sounds like Stiles just stands there under the water. Sniffing the air conspicuously, Scott detects hints of anxiety and desperation. Nothing to worry about, but enough to be noticeable. Making some guesses, he hopes Stiles knows that no amount of scrubbing and hot water is going to make him feel clean in the way he wants.

So it doesn't bother nor surprise Scott that it takes Stiles a long time in the shower. He sends a few brief texts to the sheriff, telling him about what's happening with his son. The sheriff is relieved to hear that Stiles is out of bed and talking like a (relatively) normal person. Scott also sends a brief group update to the rest of the pack. They're a bit scattered and still adjusting, but it feels good to contact them again. Scott really needs to start rebuilding them. He's not the only one reeling.

Eventually, Stiles comes back and stands in the living room just staring at him.

"What's up?" Scott asks. He has to work to hide his concern.

"I thought you would leave" is the answer.

He snorts. Half in relieve, half in disbelief that he would say something so stupid. "Not a chance, Stilinski. Come on. Middle-earth: Round Two." Scott pats the cushion beside him.

"You called me Stilinski," he mutters as he takes the offered spot.

"Would you like me to call you by your first name?"

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Can you _pronounce _my first name?"

"It's been a few years, but I can probably still say it."

For the first time since ever, Scott was interested in what was happening during _The Two Towers_. He even let up on the frequency of his sidelong glances at Stiles as the movie wore on. In fact, Scott didn't even realize the smell of exhaustion had gone away and that Stiles had fallen asleep until he was about to comment that the scenes with the Ents were total snoozefests. He bites his tongue when he realizes. How long had he been making offhand comments and criticisms (in attempt to hide his interest in the franchise he had steadfastly said was for geeky dorkwads) to a sleeping audience? Why hadn't he noticed that Stiles was no longer responding to said comments and criticisms? Perhaps most importantly: How could anyone sleep through the badass fight that was happening at Helm's Deep? The stupid part of Scott wants to wake Stiles up so that he won't miss it. The smart part of him tells the stupid part that Stiles has been talking about these movies for _years_ and has probably already seen it a thousand times.

So Scott eventually decides to make sure Stiles is nice and covered under the weighted blanket and puts in _The Return of the King_. Before the movie starts up, he let himself be awed by the fact that he is watching a movie in his best friend's house just like before all the crazy werewolf shit happened. It is almost possible for him to trick himself into believing that none of the past year and a half has happened. Almost. One look at Stiles takes the wind out of those sails. But still. It's nice to pretend, if only for a moment.

He is watching Elrond bring the re-forged sword (Scott _knew_ that was going to be important later!) to the camp where Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli are staying when Stiles comes crashing back to the world of the waking. He sits up immediately; making a sound like someone is vacuuming all the air out of him. Scott whirls around with wide eyes. It was like Stiles woke up in the middle of a panic attack. Maybe he had. Is that possible? Scott wasn't paying attention to his heart rate or breathing because of the damned movie. Stiles scoots away from him while doing that breathing-through-a-straw thing again.

"Hey, hey, hey," Scott flutters. "You're alright. You're fine. Look, _Lord of the Rings_ is still on! You only missed one movie; only asleep for a few hours."

Stiles isn't listening to him. He counts his fingers and rubs at his eyes a few times. _Something_ assuages him, and he settles on covering his eyes with his hands and resting his forehead on his drawn-up knees. Scott doesn't really know what to do. So, obviously, he does nothing. Werewolf hearing tells him that Stiles is calming down already anyway. Perhaps it wasn't a panic attack that woke him up. Probably just a wild freak out from a nightmare or something. Because that is so much better.

It takes a few minutes, but Stiles eventually lifts his head and looks at Scott like he's embarrassed. "Sorry," he says.

Scott shakes his head dismissively. "You good?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He runs a hand down his face. Glancing at the television screen, he asks, "So Aragorn got Andúril?"

Scott lets it slide and plays along. "Is that what the sword's called?"

"Every good sword has a name, Scotty."

Damn if it didn't feel good to have that easy conversation again.

"Well now that you're awake, Sleeping Beauty, I've got a lot of _opinions_ about this series that I want you to hear. You slept through _The Two Towers_, so I'm going to have to backtrack and tell you all the problems I have with that one, too."

So they wasted away the rest of the day watching the four-hour long extended edition of _The Return of the King_. Scott complained loudly to keep Stiles from realizing how much he actually liked it. A lot of things confused Scott, but Stiles always explained anything that he wasn't picking up on. It did them both a lot of good to have their minds focused on something other than their own problems. Scott was even able to distract him with questions enough for Stiles to actually eat something more than a partial pancake. It is dark by the time the sheriff comes home. On screen, Frodo is saying his goodbyes to Sam, Merry, and Pippin. Scott is definitely not crying.

The sheriff sighs dramatically when he sees them lounging in front of the television. "Not this movie again." To him, _The Lord of the Rings_ is just one long, loud, wonky movie that he doesn't even want to _try_ to understand.

"It's my fault," Scott admits. His eyes are just barely visible over the back of the couch before he whips back around to face the screen. "I brought it up."

The sheriff stands behind the couch for a moment watching the boys watch the movie. Scott seems captivated, hanging on the actors' every word, but Stiles turns away to look at his father. Putting a hand on his son's shoulder, he quietly asks, "Doing okay?"

Blinking slowly, Stiles takes a deep breath and nods. "For now."

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong>

**(Disclaimers, etc.) **

**All due respect to _The Lord of the Rings_ and J. R. R. Tolkien. I've been a huge nerd about those books/movies since before I even understood what was going on in them. All of us LOTR fans are definitely not dorkwads. Also, _Saving Private Ryan _is one of my favorite movies. It paved that way for the greatest mini-series of all time, _Band of Brothers_. (Thank you, T. Hanks and Steven Spielberg!) Couldn't resist mentioning it. **

**When I first wrote this, it was with the intention of it being a multi-chapter thing. Never got that far, so here is a nice one-shot. The idea was for this to cover that grieving period that we never got to see in season 4 (which was total bullshit, by the way). **

**Cheers,**

**E.R. **


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